


Pole Dance - Chapter 1

by EmilyNorthFiction



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyNorthFiction/pseuds/EmilyNorthFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say it takes a thief to catch a thief...</p><p>A young and inexperienced cat burgler gets in over her head and meets up with the Merc With The Mouth in the worst kind of way. But who's the real target, and will they take the bait? Hopefully we'll figure all that out befoe the bad guys do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pole Dance - Chapter 1

 

 

" _There may be some risk involved," he'd said._

_"Some" risk. Fuck me sideways._

I flex my hands for the sixth time in as many minutes. They feel confined inside the whisper-thin neoprene gloves, and I know they're necessary and I won't take them off, but it frustrates me all the same. I'm a tactile creature, I don't just see with my eyes. It was never just about seeing, even before things changed. The black gloves are as matte as my catsuit and mask, made to eat the light. I'm shrouded in black, including the skicap that seemed like a good decision at the last minute. I feel invisible, part of the darkness. The night vision goggles itch a bit but I'd never complain. The kitsch factor never really goes away with those things. I mean, come on. My world lit up in glowing green when the rest of the world is blind? Yeah, that's a turn-on all by itself.

My nerves hum and sing, and every tick and chirp in the night is another _zing_ to my strung-out system. There is much mischief afoot, ladies and gents. The stage is set and here I wait, sitting in the bushes and watching a non-descript house that's the key to to more than just the next big payoff. It's the ultimate prize. It's the apex. The turning-point, revelation chapter in the big book of the Greatest Cat Burglar of All Time, or so they'll say about me one day. I'd stand up and take a bow, but someone might be watching, and they might have guns.

The last light goes out inside the big old house. My nerves are on fire now. _All_ of me is on fire, on edge, tensed and ready to spring. It's the end of the waiting game. Just a few more dragged-out moments of twitching discomfort to crawl by, then the real show can go on.

 _My_ show.

There's some rustling as I creep out of the brush, and I smile to myself, knowing it's the last sound anyone within a ten foot radius of me would hear until the job's done. The house is a solid block or so away from me, a typical two-story plus attic and basement, same as dozens of them around this part of the 'burbs. This one, however, happens to lie at the end of a long, unlit street who's neighboring houses start out sparse and end up nil. There are conveniently empty lots on every side of it. Whoever's in there has just enough solitude to be up to no good, and just enough of a commonplace look about them to be socially invisible. That is, I _assume_ they're up to no good - I typically don't get called in on any other kind of job. I've got a reputation, after all.

Don't get me wrong - the folks who hire me are generally bastards too, but a girl's gotta eat. "Industrial Espionage" the man on the phone said, rather glamorously. Am I the kind of thief to get sucked in by glamor? Of course I am. Just look at how I'm dressed. There are a dozen different types of thief and we all do it for a dozen different reasons, but the cat burglars are a fancier lot, or at least we like to think so. Some of us - myself included - take fancy a bit further and like our danger with a touch of the exotic. On this evening's episode, a dangerous man stole a dangerous high-tech prototype from a dangerous business and they want it back badly enough to pay a bad girl to steal it. That is most definitely _my_ business. And speaking of how I'm dressed...

I peel off the night vision goggles and mask and disappear them into the pouch buckled around my waist. I always keep the straps tight and the pouch open and it's nice and loose and deep. A cat burglar has to be better than quiet - she has to be fast and thorough. Fumbling around with your gear is a good way to get distracted and getting distracted is a great way to get caught. With the goggles gone, I'm just a random neighbor walking down the street on a quiet night, and I keep my pace languid and lazy. Like the man said, fly casual. Blinking rapidly to shake off the afterglow and adjust my eyes to the dark, I approach the target. There's still no sign of activity. I hook a right turn at the side street adjacent to the property, still in absolutely no hurry at all, maintaining the facade of a casual stroll.

The last lingering light from a distant street lamp fades to a dim glow and I veer left to step into the deep shadow of the house. _Game on_. I sprint across the back lawn towards what instinct tells me is the basement entrance. I reach the target and stop on a dime, duck down low, and stay frozen until I'm certain I'm all alone. The basement is always a good place to start a sweep, and if I'm lucky, it'll be a short one. The average technology thief has just enough nerd in him to know what to look for (unless they've been coached by an eager buyer, and my connection assured me that this particular device has yet to appear on any of the underworld markets), and they are often tinkerers themselves. Ergo and therefore, I'm hoping for a basement workshop where the sounds of said tinkering (and the occasional explosion) can be kept from the ears of any nosy neighbors. Even if this one isn't any kind of nerd, the basement is a logical place to stash any kind of loot.

I give the hinges and the bolt a squirt of the automotive catalyst I brought along in one of those ridiculously handy stainless steel mini spray canisters that ladies carry perfume in while traveling. The can goes into the bushes and I go to work. By my estimate, any unruly squeaks will be penetrated and lubricated into silence by the time I get the door open. Lock picking isn't anything like you see in the movies - it can take a few minutes and it's all about having a gentle touch. Once again I curse the gloves I have to wear. Fortunately for me the lock on the back door is as old as the house it's attached to. I give the tension wrench a little more crank - these older locks can take a bit of abuse - and I start nudging the pins into the shear line one at a time. It's almost easier to do it in the dark like this, with nothing to distract me. I focus on the feel of the cylinder, the motion of the pins, and the gentle prodding of my tools. _Ah, yes_. The last tumbler sliding into place is a satisfaction akin to placing the final puzzle piece. _Snap. Click._ A pretty picture is complete and laid out before you. In my case, it's a flight of wooden stairs leading down into absolute darkness. _So far, so good_. The lockpick set goes into my pouch, the goggles go back on my face, and the door gets shut silently behind me.

 

* * * *

 

I drift down the narrow stairwell as silent as the air. "Silent as the grave" is not a term I like to use. I do not have a death wish, and I'm not especially brave about the overall idea of dying. Sure, some part of me is definitely in it for the thrill (again, just look at the way I'm dressed), but I don't enjoy violence and I try to avoid it whenever I can. The bad news? I can't always avoid it. That being said, I am armed to the teeth by cat burglar standards. There's a 9mm PPK strapped to my right ankle, a Sig Sauer 1911 Nitron in a crossdraw shoulder holster on my left up against my ribcage, a razor sharp _wakizashi_ across my back, and a taser the size of a small nightstick is tucked into a slim pocket down my right thigh. This is an accessory that I have yet to regret in the least. It's amazing how angry some folks can get when they discover you're relieving them of their hard earned valuables. It's also amazing how hard it is to drop someone when they're in an indignant rage. This always does the trick, as long as the batteries are good.

I get to the bottom of the stairs and smell cool but stagnant air and damp concrete. Old wood. Insuation. Dust. Basement smells, nothing out of the ordinary. Not the best sign. A techno geek would be up to his eyeballs in electronic equipment. I'd smell solder, epoxy, heat-shrink plastic tubing, and the like. If this were a high-end egghead's workshop, I'd practically taste metal and electricity in the air. I keep moving. The walls are lined with shelves that feature the usual basement fare. Old cardboard boxes, the occasional file case, jars and cans of foodstuffs that have probably been down here since the last world war. I can see the undisturbed dust and rust even in the dim green glow of the night vision goggles. This definitely is not the place. I head for the next room.

More of the same only uglier. Jesus. It's like a video game level in here. Every available surface is densely textured with varying combinations of dust and grime and junk. Need to focus. Get through here, get upstairs, and do what I do best. The smaller adjacent room dumps me into a narrow hallway lined with closets that I'm not stupid enough to rummage through - the doorknobs are as dusty as the shelves full of shit in this place. There's a light up ahead of me and no signs of movement. As I peer around the edge of the doorway, my heart disobeys my brain and does a small leap. The hallway empties into what looks to be the bulk of the basement. I pause to scan. Staircase on the far end leading up. Door to the left leading elsewhere. More junk in between. Washer and dryer, used recently, a good sign of life. Even better - I spot a work bench against the wall to my right piled high with the tools of the uber-nerd trade. Soldering iron still smells hot. Coils of wire sit neatly stacked, separated by gauge and color coded. Diodes and resistors and microcircuits are bunched into eggshell cups and stacked two feet high on micro shelving that lines the wall. The area is spot lit by a flexible work lamp clamped onto the furthest corner of the bench. It's one of those multi-angled jobs with a circular fluorescent bulb around a high-powered magnifying glass.

And oh, mama... what it's magnifying.

My heart starts doing a tapdance and I peel off the goggles. No need for night vision to see my prize right in front of me, prettier than Christmas time in New York City. Bingo.

 

 _"It will be around the size of a larger tv remote control," he'd said, "with an odd angle to one end, pistol grips along the sides, a row of power indicators, and a single square button right where you'd expect it would be._ "

It's _right there_. In front of me, waiting for me. The biggest payoff I've ever been promised. The golden fleece. The holy flipping grail.

 

Norman Osborne's prototype teleporter.

 

 

\-  to be continued...

 

 


End file.
